You didn’t leave all at once.
It was a slow unravel—
like thread pulled from
a sweater I still wear
because it smells like you.
We stopped talking
the way stars stop shining
before morning notices.
Not loud.
Just gone.
I kept rereading your last message,
as if hidden in the spaces
between “take care”
and the period
was a reason to stay.
I slept on your side of the bed
like a war widow —
arms empty,
heartbeat pretending
it wasn’t alone.
People say
“it will pass.”
But no one tells you
that grief sometimes curls up beside you
and calls itself love.